A haunting narrative poem exploring the eternal struggle between light and darkness within the human soul. This introspective piece delves into themes of moral duality, spiritual conflict, and the coexistence of prophet and devil in one person. Through vivid imagery of pain, redemption, and self-reflection, the poem examines how opposing forces of kindness and temptation shape our existence. Perfect for readers seeking deep philosophical poetry about human nature, internal battles, and the complex relationship between good and evil that defines the human experience.
Constantly walking down a dark alley of pain,
a cold path, leading to no loss and no real gain
He walks alone; he has always been walking alone,
each step is an agony, but he doesn’t groan or moan
He stops for a moment to take a tired breath;
thinking of his sad existence and a pitiful death
He sees a man sitting and leaning forward,
he doesn’t move, his posture so awkward
Brains blown out, there is silence in the hall,
no commotion, just blood splashed on the wall
His dead eyes, motionless, clouded and sallow,
that man is him, a life so deep and a death so shallow
Who were you really? He asks the dead man,
What did you really want? What was your clan?
Pulls onto his own hair matted with blood and brain,
he sees himself smile, though in actual he is slain
I was the product of imagination, the darkest of them all,
pain, sorrow, and suffering, an amalgamation of them all
Slowly cooked and roasted upon the fire of circumstances,
I took every risk and I availed all the chances
I hung myself all through my life, on the cross of desire,
my guilt and my regrets, lighting a damn big fire
My body laughed so hard, while my soul slowly bled,
the nails of remorse drawing blood, dark and red
I wore the crown of pleasure, dancing the dance of senses,
each conquest was glory, no qualms, no mending fences
But it was a crown of thorns, my soul writhed in pain,
and on the cross of desire, my character was finally slain
I was a prophet, I was the devil, the contrast burnt so bright,
the devil on the left always, and the prophet on the right
Kindness was the prophet’s domain; he ruled it so well,
sensuality was the devil’s game; he played it in hell
The prophet held hands and fanned the flames of life,
the devil played his flute and sharpened his sinful knife
The prophet bowed in humility, acknowledging his bounds,
the devil laughed in shadows and made his daily rounds
They were opposite in nature, but they shared a core,
crying over a broken heart, weeping for a whore
But when tired of crying, they both walked the earth,
in search of some joy, in search of some mirth
The devil broke some hearts, the prophet mended souls,
the devil stole some dreams, the prophet filled some holes
The devil caused some chaos, the prophet preached some order,
but the prophet stayed behind, while the devil crossed the border
Then they both sat together and wept and cried some more,
the prophet on his throne and the devil on the floor
The prophet told the devil that they had different fates,
the devil smiled and offered, ‘No, we are soul mates’
The dead fell silent and chose to speak no more,
he only thought in silence, shaken to the core
There was a dichotomy, though he always knew,
that it was no stark, he had no clue
He was two, not one, that was the only fact,
the prophet and the devil, it was a strange pact
He looked ahead and started to walk again,
the prophet and the devil, in the dark alley of pain
“‘Bravery is not conquering fear—it’s understanding it,’ his Grandfather’s spirit whispers during a storm, teaching him that chaos is the fire from which a phoenix is born anew.”
A visceral narrative where a traumatized veteran sits in a dark room during a storm, summoning the spirits of his elders for counsel as he battles inner demons.
The room is dark, and there is a storm raging outside. I look outside the window. The sky is all black and grey, and filled with heavy storm clouds. Rain is falling in torrents - obscuring the world and distorting reality.
There is rolling thunder outside. Lightning flashes, and the room is bathed in white for a moment. There they are, standing somber and proud. Robed in all dark, they are the spirits of my elders. They are here because I have called for them. They always respond when I need their wise counsel.
I sit down at my desk and hold my aching head in my hands. My brain is throbbing inside, beating against the bone and the membrane - all set to explode and free itself.
‘I am all alone.’ I raise my head and whisper to the shadows.
‘Yes, you are, son.’ A shadow answers and detaches from the rest. I recognize the familiar and noble features of my late Grandfather. ‘But then you have always been alone, fighting your demons and waging war on your troubles.’
‘But I feel so weak and powerless, and I am really afraid of the circumstances.’ I confess.
‘Remember those nights you spent on the dark, cold mountains of the North?’ My Grandfather says in his kind voice. ‘Each night was your last, or at least you thought so. You said farewell to life with each sunset, and you welcomed the warm hope which came with each sunrise.’
I take my time and reflect on those days. I was young and recently married, and fate had arranged an early meeting with death. There was blood and there was death. We were sitting in enemy territory, and there was enemy at our front and enemy at our back.
Death came from everywhere. It came from the sky like a rain of fire, blistering and scorching. It came from the front like a hailstorm blowing in our haggard faces. It even came from beneath the snow, exploding upwards in mushrooms of destruction.
I lost so many of my comrades. I think of their faces, bearded, and soiled with the soot of kerosene lamps. I think of their hands, bleeding and blackened by the cold. One by one, they all fell. So many smiles lost to war.
‘Yes, I do.’ I raise my head and smile at my Grandfather’s ghost, ‘Those were terrible times indeed.’
‘Weren’t you afraid?’ My Grandfather adjusts his glasses and asks.
I think of those pitch nights, when we heard the enemy climbing the slopes - hundreds of them against us, thirteen. They came when the artillery barrage stopped, and they climbed like ants. We could not see them in pitch darkness, but they were there, waiting for their chance and determined to kill us.
We fired onto them and into them. Our bullets hit their mark - soft thuds of death entering the human flesh. The front file fell, and the next file took over. They kept on climbing. My hands were badly shaking, and I was losing grip on the wooden butt of the AK-47. It was many degrees below the freezing point, but my palms were sweating.
I was afraid, frightened out of my wits, and scared shitless like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves. The magazine emptied, and I extended my hand for another. My unspoken demand went unanswered. I looked back, and my comrade was dead, blood oozing out from where his right eye used to be.
‘Oh yes, I was afraid, so very afraid.’ I shrug my shoulders and feel the chill. The fear is still there, crawling like a snake of ice in the pit of my stomach.
‘What happened then? How did you survive?’ My Grandfather asks, but he already knows the answer.
‘Somehow, I conquered my fear.’ I reflected.
‘No, you didn’t conquer it. Instead, you understood your fear.’ My Grandfather answers with a smile. ‘You dissected your fear into small parts, and understood the meaning and shape and form of each small part.’
‘But I was still afraid.’ I admit hesitatingly.
‘Remember, son, bravery is not the absence of fear. Instead, when fear is absent, it is always because of stupidity. Bravery is also not the conquering of fear. Fear is never defeated. Instead, bravery is understanding fear and manipulating it in your favor.’ He patiently explains.
I look back. I can see myself standing on that snow-covered mountain ridge. I was angry because the enemy wanted to kill me and my friends. I was angry because my survival was threatened. And I was angry because my friends’ lives were at stake.
I screamed like a wounded dragon and picked up the rifle of my dead comrade. My men heard my scream and rallied around. We started fighting with a fresh resolve. We started fighting for our survival.
‘Yes, I guess I did manage to be brave.’ I answered my Grandfather with a smile.
‘Yes, you were brave and you survived. You came back alive and proud, and you made all of us proud.’ The old man’s moist eyes are brimming with pride.
Hearing his words, I get up and stand in front of the window. It is an apocalypse out there - angels and demons fighting their eternal duel.
‘Can you see there is a storm raging outside?’ I ask the diminishing shadow of my Grandfather.
‘Yes, there is a storm raging outside, and there is all chaos. There will always be a storm raging, and there will always be chaos.’ He states with conviction and with all the wisdom in the world.
‘But remember, son, chaos is the fire and ashes from which a phoenix is born anew. Be a phoenix and come to terms with chaos. Understand it and know it. Let it envelop you and seep through you. Be the tree and let the harsh wind of chaos blow through your branches. Dance with the chaos and sway with it. Ultimately, the wind will pass and you will stand proud.’
I look outside. I dissect my fear and make an effort to understand the chaos.
‘I will survive yet again.’ I declare my resolve and look back. The lightning flashes again, and there is no one else in the room.
The spirits of my elders have left. Their job is done. The phoenix has been born anew.
You glorify sacrifice from your bed, shed tears for the dead you never knew, and judge poverty you’ve never tasted—do you really believe you know anything at all?
A blistering, accusatory poem structured as five direct challenges to anyone who judges others without having lived their experiences.
They fled Taliban Afghanistan for American freedom, but extremism followed through their son, who murdered his sister for ‘honor’ until his other sister taught him that honor cuts both ways.
A devastating narrative set in California about an Afghan refugee family torn apart by conflicting concepts of honor.
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Dawood’s home was a place of sorrow.
He was an old man, sitting on a couch in his living room. Deep lines of experience mapped his sun-beaten, brown, and haggard face. He had thick, grey hair cascading down on his shoulders, and his blue-grey eyes were clouded with age. But right then, his eyes could be seen brimming with confused tears, which were visible behind thick, pebbled glasses.
The room was wrapped in a thick blanket of dark gloom. The red and black, striped curtain covering the window, was drawn aside, letting some California sun in. But the dull rays of the early evening sun failed to lift off the gloom.
A few mediocre, monochrome photographs could be observed hung neatly on the pale walls. On closer scrutiny, most of the prints could be identified as from some mountainous Asian country, most probably the border regions of either Iran or Afghanistan.
Most of the photos showed tribesmen in baggy clothes, with automatic weapons held triumphantly across their chests, and heavy belts of ammunition hanging from their shoulders. Some stood in groups in front of burnt tanks, while the others stood either alone or in pairs. But the eyes of all subjects could be seen marked with a silently burning ferocity.
There were two floor lamps, one in each corner of the room. They were alight and throwing intersecting circles of light. The door to the small kitchen was half open, and the counter was visible. The ceiling fan was rotating slowly, throwing shadows across the ceiling.
A large LCD was nestled within the center of a large book cabinet. It was surrounded by thick, leather-bound volumes with their titles mostly in Persian or Arabic.
The floor was made of dark wood, polished and buffed to perfection, and a large, cream-colored, Persian rug marked its exact center. It was originally woven in beautiful, lustrous colors, but was now slowly darkening and caked with drying blood.
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There were two bodies on the floor, of a young man and a woman. They were in their early and late twenties, respectively. The girl was sprawled on her right side with dirty blond hair covering her face. Her wound was not visible, but blood soaked the rug under her stomach. She was dressed in a half-cut, white tank top and faded blue jeans. There was a black high-heeled shoe on her right foot, while the left was bare.
The boy was dressed in dark trousers and a blue shirt and was lying face down. A white skull cap half-covered his head, and was partially dyed with blood. His shoulder-length dark brown hair was also drenched in blood, and a gaping wound was visible right above his neck.
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Dawood turned his face and looked at Marjan. She was a beautiful and delicately built girl with dark eyes and dark hair, and was in her early twenties. Her face was passive, while she sat with her tightly clasped hands in her lap, and blankly stared at an invisible spot in the air. A blue-black and gleaming pistol could be seen nestled against her thigh. But she didn’t look like a murderer.
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There was a small ornamental table placed alongside the sofa. It was dark mahogany in color with intricate golden patterns. Dawood absentmindedly toyed with the few small picture frames placed on the table. He picked one at random and looked at it closely. The complete family was there - happy and smiling. Dawood, Guljaan, Parizeh, and Salman, with a young Marjaan smiling in the middle.
Dawood delicately caressed the image of his long-dead wife with his thumb, trying to extract some warmth and reassurance. He looked at the frozen faces of Parizeh and Salman, both in their teens and standing on each side of their parents, their eyes filled with mischief and fun. Dawood looked at their bodies on the floor, lifeless and ugly in death. Parizeh seemed to be sleeping calmly with one hand folded under the cheek, and the other spread outwards. Salman had both his arms spread outwards like he was diving down from a great height.
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Dawood picked up another frame and thought of a day in the distant past. It was Kabul, and the white pomegranate flowers were in full bloom. He was dressed in black and looked handsome in an embroidered black cap. Guljaan looked like a princess in a flowing, white dress. They were happy to be in love and lived in a small cottage on a hillock, on the outskirts of Kabul. Kabul was just a ghost of its former grandeur, but still beautiful after the Russians had left. Life seemed like a never-ending fairy story.
Soon after marriage, the young couple was gifted with children each year. First, Salman was born, and then Parizeh. Dawood and Guljaan looked at the two smiling angels and thanked God. Their lives were perfect.
Then their small piece of heaven turned into hell, and the pomegranate flowers went red with blood. The Taliban rose to power in Afghanistan, and all hell broke loose.
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Dawood was a prime target for the Taliban because of his moderate and liberal views. He did not want religion to further complicate the lives of the poor Afghans. He just wanted love, understanding, and tolerance. When the Taliban destroyed the Buddha statues in Bamiyan, Dawood vented his anger in full force. It was the wrong move, and the Taliban acted swiftly. With ten, publicly delivered lashes, Dawood went one step closer to realization.
The second blow came when the Taliban caught Guljaan walking in the bazaar without pardah. She also received ten lashes in the city square.
Dawood and Guljaan purchased truth at the price of twenty lashes. The truth was that Afghanistan was no more a place to live. It had turned into hell, and especially Kabul had truly become the city of Kane. The Taliban had brought religion and expelled God.
It took the last of Dawood’s considerable savings to get him and Guljaan out of the war-torn Afghanistan. They reached a refugee camp in Pakistan, and then Dawood used his contacts to immigrate to the USA - the land of dreams and opportunities, and a land far away from extremism and intolerance. It was a land where they could finally be free of oppression and the enforcement of a violent brand of their once peaceful religion.
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Dawood looked down at Salman’s body. He thought it strange how his son grew up to be his exact opposite. He was a decent kid and a teenager - a lively boy with a healthy interest in girls and sports. But then he fell under the spell of Laiba, a Moroccan girl with extremist beliefs.
Dawood always knew that Laiba was not the kind who married men and made their lives happier. Laiba was deranged and psychologically unstable. She had love in her heart, no doubt, but that love was for a God, terrible in His fury and anger. Laiba was not a lover. She was a recruiter, and she recruited Salman.
When Salman joined forces with religion, he lost his happiness and interest in all worldly things and activities. The country that had given him freedom and refuge and opportunities, became to him the country of heathens.
Salman became everything Dawood had ever stood against. When Laiba finally left for Afghanistan, Salman wanted to follow. It took the last ounces of strength in Guljaan to stop him. She was already sick - cancer was wreaking havoc through her body. Seeing his mother in pain, Salman did not leave.
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Parizeh was the exact opposite of Salman. She was shy and reserved as a child. But she grew into a fierce and independent girl. She had no interest in religion, and specifically its extremist version. She laughed at Salman when he grew a beard and laughed even more when he chose to wear a white skull cap at all times.
She deliberately brought her male friends home just to infuriate her brother. There were embarrassing incidents. Salman could not control his anger. It was a matter of male Muslim honor for him. He fought Parizeh every step of the way. Their relationship was characterized by black seething hatred.
Personality-wise, Marjaan was a moderate and reasonable girl. She was independent like Parizeh, but lacked her abnormal interest in sensual pleasure. She had an interest in religion like Salman, but lacked his passion for extremism. She believed in a religion of peace, love, and understanding. She viewed religion as an individual choice and not as an instrument of subjugation. Her approach brought her closer to Dawood. She was his prized child.
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Then one day Guljaan died - a silent end to her long suffering. Cancer took her away. But Dawood knew it was not cancer. It was her constant longing for the white pomegranate flowers and home, which finally killed her.
Following her death, the household disintegrated. Guljaan was the force holding the fabric of sanity together. She exercised a moderating influence upon both Salman and Parizeh and was the bonding agent between the two formidable forces. When she died, the bonding force departed with her. Dawood could only sit and watch while the world that he loved disintegrated into chaos and hatred.
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Dawood again looked at Marjaan. She had come a long way and was no longer the smiling child in the picture. She had grown into a young woman, and her cold, impassive face did not betray the calamity of the moment. It was the day when Dawood’s family ended up being a family.
Dawood looked at Marjaan and then at the two dead bodies, trying to make sense of what had happened. He remembered Salman coming home in a fury and confronting Parizeh.
‘You are a complete disgrace to this family. You have brought shame upon us.’ Salman shouted at Parizeh.
‘What have I done now?’ She asked indifferently, while calmly polishing her nails.
‘You……you have done this.’ Salman said and threw a magazine in front of her.
Parizeh glanced at the magazine out of the corner of her eyes but said nothing, choosing to focus again on her nails.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you fighting with Parizeh?’ Dawood opened up his eyes slowly and asked.
‘Just look at this, father.’ Salman picked up the magazine and shoved it in Dawood’s hands. ‘Rather don’t look at it. You can’t. Parizeh is all naked in there.’
‘I am not naked. I am wearing a swimming costume.’ Parizeh explained and laughed.
‘You look like a shameless whore.’ Salman shouted at her hoarsely. ‘May God’s curse be upon you.’
‘God’s curse be upon you.’ Parizeh mimicked her brother. ‘I don’t care about your God and his curses.’
Salman stood silently, raging for a moment, and then just left the room. Dawood closed his eyes again, praying that the matter ended right there and then. But only a few moments had passed when Parizeh’s screams jolted his eyes open. She was lying on the carpet, screaming with pain, and Salman stood over her with a cutting knife dripping with blood.
‘Oh God! What have you done? Dawood asked and tried to get up, but he could not. He watched helplessly while Parizeh breathed her last.
‘I have done what you should have done a long time ago.’ Salman shouted and seemed almost possessed by his inner demons. ‘She was a threat to this family’s honor. She was a threat to our religion’s honor, and she was a threat to my honor. Today I have removed this threat forever.’
Dawood saw Marjaan, silently approaching Salman with Dawood’s gleaming Colt in her hand. But before he could warn Salman, Marjaan raised the pistol and shot Salman in the neck, point-blank.
‘What have you done, Marjaan? He was your brother.’ Dawood stood up slowly. ‘Salman was mad. He had misconceived notions of his male and religious honor. But why did you kill him, child?’
‘I killed him for honor, too, Father.’ Marjaan said and slowly sat down on the sofa, and placed the pistol in her lap.
‘Honor? Whose honor?’ Dawood thought he had misheard her.
Shehryar khawar 